From  Lone  Mountain  to  Twin  Peaks 
In  Memory  of  Richard  Realf 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


From  LONE  MOUNTAIN 
to  TWIN  PEAKS 


"Poet,  Social  Pioneer, 
Emancipator" 


PEOPLE'S  LIBRARY,  2079  SUTTER  STREET 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

1918 


Colonel  Richard  Realf,  "poet,  orator,  journalist,  workman," 
as  he  declared  himself  in  his  last  will,  and  "soldier  for  freedom 
and  laureate  for  liberty",  as  he  might  well  have  added,  was 

buried  on  the  31st  of  October  (1878),  the  services  being 
conducted  by  the  Grand  Army  comrades  of  Oakland  and 
San  Francisco.  The  Rev.  J.  K.  Xoble,  Chaplain,  officiated. 
Col.  J.  J.  I. yon,  "his  personal  friend,  read  the  poet's  "Swan 
Song".  "Dc  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum."  The  remains  were 
interred  in  one  of  the  highest  portions  of  the  Lone  Moun 
tain  cemetery,  overlooking  and  embracing  the  Golden  Gate 
and  Bay  of  San  Francisco. 

From  "Poems  by  Richard  Realf,  Poet,  Soldier,  Work 
man",  by  my  old  friend,  Colonel  Richard  J.  Hinton,  of 
Washington,  D.  C. 

This  volume,  with  the  extended  life  of  Realf,  is  published  by 
Funk  &  Wagnalls.  Xew  York  (1898),  and  I  am  indebted  to  it  for  all 
the  selections  I  have  presumed  to  make  from  Realf's  poems.  In  my 
tribute  to  Realf.  I  have  used  the  name  "Lone  Mountain",  in  the 

•ric  sense  employed  by  Hinton  and  the  eld  San  Franciscans  and 
not  as  the  specific  name  applied  to  the  single  eminence  known 
today  as  Lone  Mountain. 

The  peculiar  significance  of  Richard  Realf  to  San  Francisco  is 
that  he  connects  us  directly  with  Old  John  Brown  of  Harper's 
Ferry,  in  whose  cabinet  Realf  was  the  selected  and  designated 
"Secretary  of  State."  Thru  his  personal  friendship  with  Lady  Byron 
in  England  in  his  youth,  he  serves  also  as  an  historical  link  between 
San  Francisco  and  Lord  Byron,  thus  bringing  us  nearer  to  John 
Brown  and  to  Byrrm.  two  men  who,  like  Realf  himself,  "wrought 
for  liberty  with  sword  and  song",  or  "speech  that  rushed  up  hotly 
from  the  heart."  —WILLIAM  McDEVITT. 

(October  28,  1918,  fortieth  anniversary  of  the  death  of  Real;'.) 


(PS 


From  LONE  MOUNTAIN 
to  TWIN  PEAKS 


'New  Liberty  and  Old  Romance' 


Forgot  of  the  green  generations, 

He  sleeps  in  the  pale  of  the  Past, — 

Brave   heart  that   could   never    surrender 
To  Sorrow,  but  broke  at  the  last. 

"He  sl"eeps"?    Nay,  he  holds  his  last  outpost 
I7ar-found  on  Lone  Mountain's  great  breast, 

As  ever,  the  Valiant,   defending 

The  Grand  Army  Line  at  its  crest. 

As  one  for  whom   Memory   dowers 

The  land  that  grew  free  thro'  his  deeds, 

His  "Song  of  his  Sword"  all  my  spirit. 
Awakens   and   quickens   and    leads. 

So  there  on  Lone  Mountain   I   seek  him, 
To  hear,  like  a  call  from  the  heights, 

His  echoing  song-pulses  throbbing 

And   thrilling   for   nobler    new    rights. 


—  1 


Then  visions  of  Realf  and  his  Captain, — 
Old  John  of  the  marching  great  soul! 

Arouse  and  allure  and  uplift  me 

Aloft  to  Twin  Peaks'  topmost  goal. 


Oh!  here  the  world-page  of  new  epic 
Lies  open,  beneath  us,  all-round! 

While  there  stands  the  Golden  Gate  pontiff 
With   golden   tiara  sun-crowned! 


The  ling'ring  light's  easeful  languor 
Beguiles  to  Romance's  domain; — • 

My  reveries  vault  the  vast  decades; 
I'm  revenant  now  in  Old  Spain! 


Is't  fancy,  that  wistful  far  chiming? 

O  voice  from  the  South  that  can  thrill ! 
O  vesper-vague  bells  of  the  Mission, 

What  pictures  with  pageants  ye  fill! 


Enraptured  my  gaze  as   Portala's! 

Encharmed  as  of  old  those  old  Vales! 
All  language  again  is  all  legend — 

The  Mission  retells  its  rare  tales! 


Its  love-laden  glamorous  magic 
Again  into  tendrils  and  leaves, 

Again  into  buds  and  brave  blossoms, 
The  burgeoning  fancy  enweaves: 

2 


Each  name  an  old  legend  endearing; 

Each  legend  a  page  of  old  Past; 
Each  page  a  tapestried  pageant 

From  dreams  that  all  dreaming  outlast. 


"Dolores,  Guerrero,  Valencia!" 
O  litany's  lilt  that  allures! 

"Dolores,  Guerrero,  Valencia!" 

How  melody's  mem'ry  endures! 


"Dolores!"  Guerrero,  "Valencia!" 

Romance  that  shall  never  grow  cold ! 
"Guerrero!"  Dolores,  "Guerrero!" 
Thy  lover  that  never  grew  old ! 


D.olores,  the  light  of  the  home  land! 

Guerrero,  the  knight  of  dear  Spain ! 
Valencia,  the  sun-loving  province 

Of  wine  and  of  fruit-laden  wain ! 


Dolores,  Guerrero,  Valencia! 

The  Maid  and  the  Man  and  the  Clime ! 
Of  these  is  the  Kingdom  of  love-tales — 

"Camino  Real"  of  old  rime! 


Ah!  soon  may  some  late  Mission  minstrel, 
New  Stoddard,  this  idyl  restore! 

For  never  Romance  stirred  so  instant 
From  magical  casement  of  yore. 

—  3  — 


Not  mine,  tho,  the  lute  of  love's  legend 

Nor  lay  of  Valencia's  delight: — 
Dolores,  thy  true  troubador 

Some  day  shall  repledge  his  true  plight, — 

Ail-gallantly  ride  as  to  tourney, 

Thy  favor  aflame   on   his  lance, 
And  gaily  with  ballad  immortal 

Thy  beauty  permain   in  romance. 

(Recessional) 

It's  darkling:  I  turn  to  Lone  Mountain, 

My  tribute  is  Richard's  to-day. 
Not  Richard  the  proud  Coeur-de-Lion, 

But  Coeur  de  tous  hommes  Revoltes. 

For  He  was  a  soldier,  Dolores! 

A  lover,  Guerrero,  all  heart ! 
Nor  even  Valencia's  Knighthood 

More  chivalrous  champions  gart. 

"De  Mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum," 

His  anguishing  threnody  runs : — 
The  "good"  of  thy  laureates,  Freedom, 

Endureth  while' er  thou  hast  sons. 

L'Envoi 

Where  Age  makes  Romance,  and  where  Freedom, 

The  light  of  our  breed,  is   reborn, 
Old   sunsets  will  gild   the  old  glories, — 

New  liberty  gild  the  new  morn! 

— William  McDevitt. 
—  4  — 


SELECTIONS  FROM 
RICHARD  REALF'S  SONGS 


Symbolisms 


O  Earth!  thou  hast  not  any  wind  that  blows, 

Which  is  not  music;  every  weed  of  thine, 

Pressed  rightly,  flows  in  aromatic  wine 
And  every  humble  hedgerow  flower  that  grows, 

And  every  little  brown  bird  that  doth  sing, 
Hath  something  greater  than  itself  and  bears, 

A  living  word  to  every  living  thing: 
Albeit  it  holds  the  Message  unawares. 

All  shapes  and  sounds  have  something  which  is  not 
Of  them;  a  Spirit  broods  amid  the  grass; 

Vague  outlines  of  the  Everlasting  Thought 
Lie  in  the  melting  shadows  as  they  pass; 

The  touch  of  an  Eternal   Presence  thrills 

The  fringes  of  the  sunset  and  the  hills. 


-5- 


Love's  Marvel 


I  think  that  Love  makes  all  things  musical, 

As,  melted  in  the  marvel  of  its  breaths, 
Our  barren  lives  to  blossoming  lyrics  swell, 

And  the  new  births  shine  upward  from  old  deaths; 
Witching  the  world  with  wonder.     Thus  to-day, 

Watching  the   crowding  people   in   the   street, 

I  thought  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing  feet, 
Moved  to  a  delicate  sense  of  rhythm  alway, 
And  that  I  heard  the  yearning  faces  say, 

"Soul,  sing  me  this  new  song!"  The  Autumn  leaves, 
Throbbed  subtly  to  me  an  immortal  tune. 
And  when  a  warm  shower  wet  the  roofs  at  noon, 

Low  melodies  seemed  to  slide  down  from  the  eaves, 
Dying  delicious  in  a  dreamy  swoon. 


—  6  — 


David  Swing 


Wherefore  albeit  thine  enemies  howl  and  hiss, 
Remain  thou  silent,  till  thine  hour  is  full. 

Until  thine  hour  is  come.    For  there  shall  come, 

A  moment,  when,  with  clarified,  soft  eyes, 
Men  shall  behold  thy  stature  and  stand  dumb, 

Stricken  with  large  and  beautiful  surprise. 
But  this  is  not  thy  glory;  the  broad  gaze, 

Of  seeing  natures,  the  sweet  sobs  and  shouts 
Of  glad,  freed  thralls,  who  in  new-throbbing  praise, 

Do  penance  for  the  evil  of  old  doubts. — 
The  home  in  good  men's  hearts;  the  wider  faith, 

The  benedictions  poured  along  thy  path. 
The  prayers  that  run  like  couriers  at  thy  side, 

The  dear  beliefs  of  childhood's  innocence, — 
These  are  as  naught, — that  thou  hast  justified 

Thy  soul  with  love,  is  thy  soul's  recompense. 


•7- 


Written  on  the  Night  of  His  Suicide 

De  mortnis  nil  nisi  bonum.    When 

For  me,  this  end  has  come,  and  I  am  dead, 
And  the  little  voluble,  chattering  daws  of  men. 

Peck  at  me  curiously,  let  it  then  be  said, 
By  some  one  brave  enough  to  speak  the  truth: 

Here  lies  a  great  soul  killed  by  cruel  wrong, 
Down  all  the  balmy  days  of  his  fresh  youth, 

To  his  bleak,  desolate  noon,  with  sword  and  song, 
And  speech  that  rushed  up  wildly  from  his  heart, 

He  wrought  for  liberty,  till  his  own  wound, 
(He  had  been  stabbed)  concealed  with  painful  art, 

Through  wasting  years,  mastered  him  and  he  swooned, 
And  sank  there  where  you  see  him  lying  now, 
With  the  word  "Failure"  written  on  his  brow. 


But  say  he  succeeded.     If  he  missed 

World's  honors  and  world's  plaudits,  and  the  wage, 
Of  the  world's  deft  lackeys,  still  his  lips  were  kissed, 

Daily  by  those  high  angels  who  assuage 
The  thirsting  of  the  poets — for  he  was 

Born  unto  singing — and  a  burthen  lay 
Mightily  on  him,  and  he  moaned  because 

He  could  not  rightly  utter  to  the  day 
What  God  taught  in  the  night.    Sometimes  nathless 

Power  fell  upon  him,  and  bright  tongues  of  flame 
And  blessings  reached  him  from  poor  souls  in  stress, 

And  benedictions  from  black  pits  of  shame, 
And  little  children's  love  and  old  men's  prayers 
And  a  great  Hand  that  led  him  unawares. 


So  he  died  rich.     And  if  his  eyes  were  blurred 

With  big  films — silence!  he  is  in  his  grave: 
Greatly  he  suffered;  greatly  too  he  erred; 

Yet  broke  his  heart  in  trying  to  be  brave. 
Nor  did  he  wait  till  Freedom  had  become 

The  popular  shibboleth  of  courtier's  lips; 
He  smote  for  her  when  God  Himself  seemed  dumb, 

And  all  His  arching  skies  were  in  eclipse. 
He  was  a-weary,  but  he  fought  his  fight, 

And  stood  for  simple  manhood,  and  was  joyed, 
To  see  the  august  broadening  of  the  light 

And  new  earth's  heaving  heavenward  from  the  void. 
He  loved  his  fellows,  and  their  love  was  sweet, — 
Plant  daisies  at  his  head  and  at  his  feet. 


—  9  — 


My  Sword  Song 


Day  in,  day  out,  through  the  long  campaign, 

I  march  in  my  place  in  the  ranks, 
And  whether  it  shine  or  whether  it  rain, 

My  good  sword  cheerily  clanks; 
It  clanks  and  clanks  in  a  knightly  way, 

Like  the  ring  of  an  armored  heel; 
And  this  is  the  song,  which  day  by  day, 

It  sings  with  its  lips  of  steel. 


O  friend  from  whom  a  hundred  times, 

I  have  felt  the  strenuous  grip 
Of  the  all-renouncing  love  that  climbs 

To  the  heights  of  fellowship; 
Are  you  tired  of  all  the  weary  miles? 

Are  you  faint  with  your  swooning  hymns? 
Do  you  hunger  back  for  the  olden  smiles? 

And  the  lilt  of  olden  hymns? 


Has  your  heart  grown  weak  since  that  rapt  hour, 

When  you  leapt,  with  a  single  bound, 
From  dreaming  ease  to  sovereign  power — 

Of  a  living  soul — world  crowned? 
Behold!  the  aloes  of  sacrifice 

Are  better  than  radiant  wine, 
And  the  bloody-sweat  of  a  cause  like  this 

Is  agony  divine. 

—  10- 


Under  the  wail  of  the  shuddering  world, 

A  moan  for  its  fallen  sons; 
Over  the  volleying  thunders  hurled 

From  the  throats  of  the  wrathful  guns, 
Above  the  roar  of  the  plunging  line, 

That  rocks  with  the  fury  of  hell, 
Runs  the  absolute  voice — O   Earth  of  mine, 

Be  patient,  for  all  is  well. 


Thus  sings  my  sword  to  my  soul,  and  I, 

Albeit  the  way  is  long, — 
As  soiled  clouds   darken  athwart  the   sky — 

Still  keep  my  spirit  strong: 
Whether  I  live,  or  whether  I  lie 

On  the  stained  ground,  ghastly  and  stark, 
Beyond  the  carnage,   I  shall  descry,. 

Love's  shine  across  the  dark. 


—  11  — 


Of  Liberty  and  Charity 

O  wherefore  should  ill  ever  flow  from  ill, 
And  pain  still  keener  pain  forever  breed? 

We  all  are  brethren;  even  the  slaves  who  kill 
For  hire  are  men;  and  to  avenge  misdeed 

On  the  misdoer,  doth  but  misery  feed 
With  her  own  broken  heart — Shelley. 


So  sang  the  wondrous  singer  all  compact 

Of  inspiration  and  prophetic  fire, 
All  built  of  instincts  whose  divineness  tracked 

Music  to  its  first  springs,  and  did  acquire 
The  secret  of  the  Everlasting  Fact. 

To  which  the  poets  of  the  world  aspire, 
And  made  the  land  which  chased  him  o'er  the  seas 
Drunk  with  the  wine  of  his  fierce  melodies. 


II 

He  being  dead,  yet  speaketh.     His  great  songs 
Run  up  and  down  the  listening  universe, 

Whitening  the  cheeks  of  Tyrannies  and  wrongs, 
Smiting  oppression  with  a  lyric  curse; 

Fusing  the  alien  thought  of  alien  throngs, 
So  that  they  dwell  in  spiritual  intercourse; 

And  breathing  like  a  sweet  wind  of  the  south 

On  warm  lip  wasted  by  the  troublous  drouth. 

—  12  — 


.     Ill 

While  lasts  the  language,  his  high  hymns  shall  last; 

While  stirs  the  heroic  impulse,  he  shall  stir 
The  hearts  of  many  like  a  high  blast; 

And  as  the  steed  doth  quicken  to  the  spur, 
Men's  souls  shall  quicken,  when  his  strains  have  passed 

Into  the  pulses,  and  grown  worthier 
Of  that  ineffable  beauty  which  he  saw 
With  his  clear  eyes  of  tenderness  and  awe. 


IV 

On  him  the  sense  of  human  brotherhood 

Lay  like  a  Prophet's  burden;  if  there  ran 

Immortal  maledictions  in  his  blood 
For  whatsoever  desecrated  man — 

Nathless  a  lute-like  voice  of  pity  wooed 
The  foolish  evil-doer.     His  stern  ban 

Was  for  the  sin — upon  the  sinner's  lips 

He  laid  the  kisses  of  clean  fellowships. 


To  him  the  stature  of  a  man  was  as 

The  stature  of  an  angel — he  could  see — 

Albeit  but  dimly  as  through  darkened  glass — 
Gleams  of  a  dread  and  awful  sanctity, 

Crowning  the  spotted  foreheads,  which  alas! 
Scarce  felt  their  solemn  crowning.     Equally 

He  looked  on  kings  and  beggars;  on  the  attaint 

As  on  the  hero  and  the  praying  saint. 

—  13  — 


VI 

He  saw  Heaven's  rivers  of  compassion  roll 

To  the  uttermost  end  of  Being;  and  he  strove, 

With  all  the  hoarded  splendor  of  his  soul, 

To  make  the  lean  earth  bless  itself  with  love, 

And  crown  itself  with  Love's  grand  aureole; 

Whereby  the  rhythmic  garlands  which  he  wove, 

Were  wonderful  for  beauty — iris-hued 

With  the  great  glow  of  Love's  infinitude. 


VII 

Thou  winged-spirit,  eagle-plumed  for  power, 
And  flight  beyond  the  daring  of  the  eye! 

We  have  sore  need  for  thee  in  this  dark  hour, 

When  all  the  wells  of  kindness  are  drained  dry, 

And  popular  passion  rages  to  deflower 

The  popular  conscience,  and  make  Victory 

The  procuress  of  Vengeance,  and  the  lusts 

Of  dragon-eyed  suspicion  and  mistrusts. 


VIII 

Let  Liberty  run  onward  with  the  years, 

And  circle  with  the  seasons;  let  her  break 

The  tyrant's  harshness,  the  oppressor's  spears; 
Bring  ripened  recompenses  that  shall  make 

Supreme  amends  for  sorrow's  long  arrears; 
Drop  holy  benison  on  hearts  that  ache; 

Put  clearer  radiance  into  human  eyes 

And  set  the  glad  earth  singing  to  the  skies. 

—  14  — 


IX 

Let  her  voice  thunder  at  the  door  of  kings, 

And  lighten  in  black  dungeons.     Let  her  breath 

Stir  the  dry  bones  of  peoples,  till  there  springs 
Life's  fruitful  vigor  out  of  barren  death; 

And  roused,  vast  millions  clap  triumphant  wings 

O'er  the  mean  devils  which  have  hindered  failh; 

And  men's  tall  growth  of  excellence  express 

Invincible,  puissant  nobleness. 


.'111839 


From  Realfs  Best-Known  Poem, 
INDIRECTION 


Great  are  the  symbols  of  being,  but  that  which  is  symboled  is 
greater; 

Vast  the  created  and  beheld,  but  vaster  the  inward  creator; 

Back  of  the  sound  broods  the  silence,  back  of  the  gift  stands  the 
giving; 

Back  of  the  hand  that  receives  thrill  the  sensitive  nerves  of  receiv 
ing. 


Space  is  as  nothing  to  spirit,  the  deed  is  outdone  by  the  doing; 
The  heart  of  the  wooer  is   warm,  but  warmer  the   heart  of  the 

wooing; 
And  up  from  the  pits  where  these  shiver,  and  up  from  the  heights 

where  those  shine, 
Twin  voices  and  shadows  swim  starward,  and  the  essence  of  life  is 

divine. 


—  16  — 


"There  never  will  be  an  end  to  the  Troubador ;  and  now 
and  then  it  would  seem  that  the  jingle  of  their  guitars  will 
drown  the  sound  of  the  muffled  blows  of  the  pick-axes  and 
trip-hammers  of  all  the  workers  of  the  world." 

O.  HENRY'S  closing  lines  of  his  story, 
"The  Last  of  the  Troubador  s." 


22  8  B 


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